The End of Ana
by mbonwit
Summary: If Ana had never met Christian, who would she be? This story takes place when Ana is in her mid-40s and dealing with a very dreary life after relocating to Montauk. She may be rich, still pretty and fully grown out of her awkward phase, but who will finally be the one to bring her out of her shell?


**Chapter 1**

"The risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." –Anaïs Nin

Ana felt like a roaring fire had only just been extinguished in the pit where her tongue rooted to her throat. Snapping out of the dream, she immediately replayed the images again and wished she could lose herself in what she remembered, swallow that fire and live in the depths of the cravings she felt slipping away from her body.

She had been with a man who was her husband, tall and grizzled, but still young and vigorous. Following him across a wooden bridge over a river in the woods – or a park or the edge of an estate – she watched the sun glide over the heavy muscles of his back as his denim shirt stretched across his broad shoulders, the curled hairs at the nape of his neck slipped up and over his collar as he strode before her. She was totally mute in the dream but questions raced through her mind. _Where were they going? Why wasn't he saying anything? How long had they been walking?_

At no point did she feel fatigued or achy but she though they'd been walking a long time. Possibly days through this place and that it had always been in sunshine, this particular sunlight that she understood was called the Golden Hour. She took photography classes in high school and knew that everything was just unbelievably beautiful in the hour before the sunset. That any imperfection was smoothed over, that girls who weren't quite pretty became beautiful and that they should be captured in this light. It crossed Ana's thoughts that if they were traipsing through this world in the harsh light of morning or, worse, midday, that she'd be filled with dread at how exposed she was and either clutch a large hat over her ears or let her long bleached blonde hair fall like a waterfall parting around her hands as they cupped a shadow for her face.

The rumble of airplanes seemed to be never ending and even their swift shadows crossed the field yet every time she looked up, the sky was radiantly blue and that honey ball of sun kept spreading itself out, seeming to touch every living thing in a slow glitter. The world seemed to flash and brighten around her until she looked directly at something - looking dead center at a tree, a rock or the grass shaking in their wake made those objects defined and beautiful while everything else seemed to throb and sparkle in her periphery. She looked back to the man's shoulder and she swore she could see the rough weave of his shirt, the stiches in his collar, the cuffs of the shirt hastily rolled around the ropey bulge of his forearms. Sliding her eyes further down, she saw his tight brown pants hugging a nicely shaped rear and strong legs.

Embarrassed, she looked up with a start and a quick inhale, her hands flashing up to her lips in an old habit from before… Holy cow! Ana occasionally saw the angle of his scruffy jaw as he glanced to his right a few times, seeming to understand the lay of the land in a primal way. Even in her mind's eye, she couldn't picture his face but she knew what it was like to be looked at by him. To be viewed by something ungodly powerful, without any other sense or piece of knowledge about how his eyes looked – not their color or shape, their kindness or harshness. There was a radiant magic she could feel floating out of his eyes and somehow taking her in, fully, feeling his gaze over every part of her body, under the dress she wore, aggressively stroking the fine hairs across her skin and diving into crevasses. At times she swore she felt fingers first sliding then digging into different parts of her body. She didn't doubt he could actually _see_ her in some way.

If her mind wandered, she swore she felt a quick pinch on the under curve of her behind or in the softness of her upper arm. Ana jerked around and looked for how this was at all possible, only to see the glittering sunlight and nothing else. At various points in the dream she let her mind wander so the pinches could spark her back into the moment.

She knew her husband was carrying something quite heavy in front of him. Her mind raced. _What is it? What are we supposed to do?_ She understood that there was a goal, a final place for them to rest and set whatever he carried down and once that happened, she knew that everything would change forever. It would be like an earthquake or a tidal wave or even an asteroid pummeling the earth. They would reach their goal and the world would irreparably change. She knew he was moving with purpose and it was her job to be there, to attend to him and be there the moment everything changed. In the dream, she was to be a new Eve, a herald of change, and sing of her enlightenment.

Eventually the airplanes seemed to fly lower and lower, their shadows grew darker and in their shadows the golden sparkles around her turned cold and steel grey before flashing into gold again. Then she heard the voices of men in the distance. Lots of men surrounded them very suddenly. She could almost feel the presence of hundreds of men behind the trunks of the trees, behind hillocks and standing in the little glades yet everywhere she looked, no one was revealed. Cold fingers slipped over every exposed inch of flesh and she recoiled from them. With each unwanted caress, the warm pinch would come until her skin seemed to be flashing in cold strokes and hot pinches. As they kept walking she could feel the cold fingers slipping under her dress and the hot pinches quickly following until the corners of her mouth, the sides of her breasts, the delicate slope of her stomach, the moistening thatch covering her womanhood were almost aflame with fingers that felt ice cold and searing hot pinches. Suddenly all the fingers found their way to their respective goals – everything throbbing under a battle of unseen touches. Her husband neither seemed to care or slow in his forward motion. She panted; not from the exertion of keeping up with him.

Ana wanted to nuzzle into the deep crease down her husband's back and wrap her arms around his strong torso, one hand sliding up over the curve of his left chest, the other hand slipping down to grab the buckle of his belt. Daring to dream of moving lower on his anatomy was highly out of the question, even in her dreams, yet Ana desperately wanted to hold onto him, clutch at his collarbone and belt and let her toes drag in the soft grass and loose dirt they walked over. She wanted her husband to bear her weight and the weight of the box in front of him. She wanted to feel of his heart against her forearm and the brass of his belt bucket burning into her palm.

Trying to catch up to him never seemed possible, but Ana felt her husband's back pressed into her cheek the more she wanted to be pressed deeply against him. Her tears welled and instead of falling down her cheeks, she saw them spread on his back and mix in the sweat staining the denim. Seeing her tears appear on his shirt without feeling him within her grasp drove her crazy and the tears flowed quicker and harder.

All the sensations suddenly left her body, an immediate retreat into nothingness.

Breath that had been heavy from passion now caught in her throat until she felt light headed. Instead of following behind him, her feet slowed and she kept losing her balance until he was farther and farther away from her. The sun suddenly started slipping down the sky and her own shadow was cast long and distorted before her. There were men coming into focus and the honey of the world drained away. Her sobs echoed off the earth around her and she dropped to her knees as she saw the last of her husband's body pass between outcrops of boulders.

Ana came out of her dream hearing her own sobs. Her heart ached, the dream more real than anything she'd experienced in years. The thin white shirt and yoga pants she wore were slightly damp and she wanted nothing more than to be out of them. She could feel dried spittle on her chin and knew that the dampness between her thighs was much more than just sweat that tricked into a low spot.

Ana swiped her arms and legs across the empty expanse of her bed and felt the coldness of the sheets as she moved away from her own body. Opening her eyes, Ana took in the white washed wooden ceiling in her shingled cottage just a few steps off the beach. She moved to "The End," as some called Montauk, over ten years before. Her shingled cottage was built in the middle of last century and while it was quite a pretty penny then, when the housing market had not even yet begin to collapse, she poured even more money into it and the small crow's nest on the other side of the property – just a modest guesthouse with a three-quarter bath, electric kettle and small porch set a bit above the property on short stilts. When she first came to the Hamptons, she knew that there was no way she'd live in Westhampton; East Hampton and Amagansett were decidedly too popular for her tastes and North Fork was too rustic. She was originally attracted to Orient, the _awayness_ of that hamlet was extremely alluring to her. In the end, though, after four months of renting a house and being unable to buy such necessities as coconut water from the local stores forced Ana to settle into a more accessible part of Long Island.

Bending her legs under her, she rose into a kneeling position on the mattress and lett her head rest on her shoulder. Out the window she could see a young auburn-haired man surfing a small break just off the corner of her property. Still in the throes of her dream, and momentarily giving up any reserve she normally had, she wished the hands pulling at the bottom hem of her shirt were the young man's tan hands. She rubbed the thin fabric over her lips and wished her lips were whispering into her husband's back or into the shoulder of the surfer. Without her contacts, he was indistinct but she knew he must be beautiful the way all young men were beautiful in the Hamptons. Young, effortlessly smooth and still rough around the edges. Boys treated as adults from such an early age that by the time they were young adults, they were full of manly bravado and charisma and so silly. Their earnestness enough to laugh at if you didn't know how deeply it would hurt their feelings and send their fine browns crashing over their soft eyes.

Ana tossed the shirt on the pile of pillows behind her and let her breasts be exposed to the boy who couldn't see her for a few moments before sliding off the bed and walking to the bathroom, crossing her arms over her chest.

When had she packed herself back up into herself? She had once been free – learned to be free – and relished herself, her body and the throbbing friction of lovers. It had taken years, though, and in the intervening time, she felt like the young brown-haired virgin she was in college. Now she felt like a tube of flesh hanging from her bones. Turning off her thoughts, she slid the yoga pants off her hips and tossed the light fabric behind her onto the bed. Naked, alone, the heated floors a warm welcome on her feet and yet, there was a slight coolness in the air around her shoulders – a faint reminder of her dream.

Her nipples hardened between the gentle roll of her fingers and she slowly massaged her breasts, drawing her fingers in the valley over her sternum and slowly cupping under each soft lobe – her other hand gently stroking down the length of her torso, dawdling at her navel and waist. Ana lightly pinched at herself and felt electricity spark in her body then brought her other hand down quick to stroke the slightly buzzing skin left by her other hand. She trailed gentle fingers across her flesh and believed them to be cold only to snatch the skin, where she could, in her other fingers, pinching just enough to bring the flesh up. It felt nothing like her dream but she was able to spark the memories, which heightened her senses. She gasped as she caught hold of her left nipple and smoothed her right hand straight down into her shorn womanhood. She felt more swollen than ever before beneath her gentle pets. Digging her fingers into herself, Ana pulled and caressed at the meaty folds and crevasses, rocked and dug her knuckles up sharply and ground her loose fist home – imaging the rugged hands of her dream husband possessing her instead. Pinching, stroking, diving, grazing, searching, driving her closer and closer to the final moment of letting loose.

Ana had never been so aggressive with herself. She wondered what came over her. Slipping her thumbs against her opening, Ana was able to cup her deeply swollen lips in each palm and as she took a wider stance, she deeply massaged the outside of her womanhood with the balls of her palms, the final joints of her thumbs where they met her wrists gripped onto either side of the engorged center of her pleasure and she could hardly stand up. Her legs cramped with the effort of balance, yet the occasional awkward step only seemed to drive more fire into her loins than distract her from the task at hand. Clenching and releasing the muscles in her pelvis that familiar warmth began to spread and she brought her wet hands up her body and circled her breast again, running her fingernails just around the rim of her nipples then up to the exquisitely hot skin above her jugular, along her jaw, behind her ears and along her skull to the nape of her neck. She wanted to lay down, and wished she started in bed, yet the effort of standing up and doing _this_ to herself seemed to play a huge part in that warmth spreading over her entire body and throbbing deep within her.

Ana looked at herself in the bathroom mirrors and saw she was absolutely flushed and looked more like an animal than a woman. Looking away from herself, she grabbed herself firmly and slipped her index and middle finger inside herself, riding her hand until her groans came wildly out from deep in the pit of her stomach and her head began rocking rhythmically back and forth. She kept her eyes shut and she saw both the husband in her dreams and the young surfer. Ana imagined how passionate they would be with her, how they would both aim to please her in such an utmost way that her eyes would roll back into her head and she'd momentarily come close to dying. She met the firm clenching of her fist with thrusting hips and erupted in a near-seizure orgasm.

Ana hadn't had sex in years though there were still men hitting on her when she ventured into town. As she grew older, she lost any confidence she had in her twenties and avoided any man unless he was particularly handsome or charming, then she would let the conversation continue. At one point, once the man got too serious in his moves – an innocent touch sent her into cold sweats – or she felt him figuring out how to ask her on a date, she would shut him down and excuse herself.

After a quick shower, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her friends contended she looked like a mix of Robin Wright and Farrah Fawcett but Ana saw the fine, and not so fine, wrinkles all over her face. The larger and deeper wrinkles had been filled while the smaller lines had been botoxed into submission. A daily routine of moisturizers, amino acids, modern miracles of youth were used alongside her regular spa treatments – one scheduled at the Montauk Yacht Club spa in a few hours – and she looked as good as she could though she still knew the lines were there. Ana could spot the shadows of small creases in every reflective surface she saw. As she passed into her mid-40s, she was trying to gain the strength to accept herself.

"It's sad to grow old, but nice to ripen," she would quote to herself from Brigitte Bardot on a regular basis.

Sitting on a small bench, the plush robe pulled over her shoulders and tightly belted at her still-slim waist, she saw her limp blonde hair frame a face that was, yes, still attractive, yes, still almost girlish, yes, still not haggard and frightening – not the face of her mother or her grandmother – thank god – yet still the face of a woman who was no longer young and supple. Ripe was fine, she guessed, if that was what everyone else had to contend with also. She forced herself to look at herself this way every morning, hoping she would finally _finally_ accept that everyone grows older.

That said, she wrapped her hair in a towel and pulled a squat jar of swabs soaked in fruit enzymes and lactic acid from the small fridge under the counter of the bathroom. She kept fresh fruit, water, lite protein shakes and an assortment of special temperature sensitive products in the fridge. She used to use a gritty exfoliant, even following Helena's recommendations from the spa, before the irritation led to a small break out. Ana hid in her house for four days, afraid the extra makeup to hide the uneven skin would further block her pores and unwilling to venture even onto her yard in case someone passed by on the beach and she was without _any_ make up. This exfoliant balanced between being strong enough to clean but wasn't abrasive and didn't over-dry her skin.

After a few moments, she used small cotton pads to wipe the dead skin from her face as she sipped at her water – never ending bottles of water were just as important as the creams and serums she stockpiled in her bathroom and purse. There would always, for the rest of her life, be a dire battle to stay hydrated. She knew moisturizing was the best key to warding off fine lines and enlarged pores and that meant no caffeine, low sodium and sugar and drink after drink of water, especially in the morning.

As Ana pulled a thin vial of argan oil from the bottles and containers in front of her, she let her thoughts drift back to her dream. Her real – and long-dead – husband was vastly different than the man in her dreams. Small of stature, over attentive, preoccupied with the comings and goings of business: He was not vital. His eyes did not convey a sense of light or power. He was a well-paid minion, not a master. There had been nothing wrong with him, she thought while rubbing a few drops of the argan oil into her face, in fact the man had been a wonderfully good choice. Good family, lots of money, not hateful or demanding in anyway. He worked, he had good friends which afforded her time to herself and friends she didn't have to meet on her own, and then just died.

Ana couldn't remember a single vivid thing about the man, though. She didn't think of him often and wouldn't have except for the dream. Her dreams were getting quite vivid and she worried she'd forget to tell her therapist about them, as she had for the past few weeks. If she wasn't applying a mixture of special acids, lipids and finely ground wheat germ to her face – the coldness of the cream straight out of the fridge sent a joyful shiver through her entire body – she'd have written down _Tell Dr Gimlette about the DREAMS!_ on the small pad of paper she always kept in her purse.

She applied a bit of retinol to her dark spots, the ones that persisted regardless of all the treatments, before grabbing the brush for her mineral powder. While glowing and fully hydrated, Ana could still see places that just weren't supple enough. She lamented the fact that when you get older and you maintain your slim figure, your cheeks will only become more hollow, never plumping out, just caving farther in.

If she had written down the note about her dreams, she would've skipped a line and in all-caps written MAKE APPOINTMENT WITH DR KAROUSH FOR THE FRAXEL. An expensive, and mildly alarming procedure, that made her face quite a bit pinker than she was comfortable with yet made her look absolutely beautiful and young. Going with full plastic surgery was opening a door that could never close and that was something Ana wanted to avoid for a bit longer.

"Once you start that you can't stop it," she said to herself curtly. She hummed a line from "Don't Stop Til You Get Enough" as she used a swab soaked in bronzer and sunscreen over her forehead.


End file.
